


Pugilism

by attentat



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Bathtub, Blow Job, Boxing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-16
Updated: 2010-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:31:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attentat/pseuds/attentat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a special pleasure watching Holmes fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pugilism

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for sherlockkink, over at livejournal.

Every Friday, for pretty much the entirety of their acquaintance, Holmes would strip to his skin and trousers, enter the arena, and annihilate some poor bruiser. And after the first few times, when Holmes came back bloodied and bruised and grinning like a corpse to an uncomprehending Watson, Watson would come with him and watch. Watson remembered patching Holmes up and glaring at him, radiating disapproval as he stitched a large cut over Holmes's eyebrow a bit more roughly than it perhaps warranted. Holmes had caught his hand between two of Holmes's own, and smiled up. "You should come next time, Watson. It might ease this fretting."

And Watson knew this was largely a gambit to keep the annoyance of his disapproval at bay, but it worked. Because Holmes was brilliant, and having Watson come -- having Watson watch and bet -- made him complicit, made him a participant. And Watson's heart would pound and he would get swept up in the jeers of the swirling crowd and watch Holmes pummel another London thug, and when the room deflated, and Holmes was left standing, he felt as sore and as tired as if it had been him. 

It was a sincere pleasure to watch Holmes fight. His skin was golden in the light, stretched over rough muscles that had only the barest anatomical similarity to Watson's models and Greek statues. Muscles honed and formed and strengthened in the process of boxing felt different, somehow, than an artist's rendering of perfection. Holmes would sweat, and Watson was close enough to the ring to see a droplet of it run down his spine, to see more dislodged as he took a punch, and he could almost taste the salt of it. When Holmes fought, Watson would watch him whole and entire, conflicted between studying his eyes (dark, smiling, watching), the pull of skin, the dripping of blood mingled with sweat. The roar in his ears was not only the crowd. 

When Holmes won, Watson would collect his winnings and then collect the victor, Holmes leaning heavily (unnecessarily) on Watson, leaving traces of himself on Watson's clothes. And Watson would dump him into the bath, allow him to luxuriate while he stitched wounds and poured alcohol over cuts. Watson's hands would run over Holmes's wet skin, enjoying the roughness and the flickering of expressions as Holmes cycled so quickly between pleasure and pain that the two were indistinguishable. And often, not always but often, Watson's hands would slip downward, curl around the stiffness of Holmes's cock, and he would get the pleasure of watching Holmes's eyes flutter closed. 

This was a different sort of joy, but not distant from the thrill of boxing. He enjoyed making Holmes's muscles clench, enjoyed the splay of Holmes's elegant fingers around his arm, enjoyed the peculiar vulnerability of a man naked in the bath, gasping his name, while Watson remained almost fully dressed, his jacket and waistcoat aside, but his shirtsleeves only rolled up above his elbow. Holmes didn't perfectly fit in the small copper bath, and his arms would be sticking out, hands inevitably going to touch Watson's face, a disarming tenderness when the water was murky with blood and moving with the easy strokes of Watson's hand. 

The silken slip of skin and water would be intoxicating underneath Watson's hand, his other pressed between his own legs, a damp spot growing on his trousers, and he would watch Holmes shudder and shake himself apart. And when Holmes came to glory, it was as if all the nervous energy fled him as his seed did, and Watson would help him out of the bath and pour him in bed. And then, Watson would go just outside the door, lean his forehead against the wood and fumble with his pants. It never took more than a stroke or two before he was belatedly joining Holmes in bliss. 

But Holmes couldn't always win. That would be uneconomical, as the odds would be far too terrible to be even worth the bother. Holmes would never tell Watson what he was planning until right before the betting ended, when he would lean in and murmur something in his ear, breath hot and voice already strained. They dressed Watson up sometimes, in disguises and accents that never fit exactly right, so that the crowd wouldn't learn to always bet as the doctor did. 

On the nights Holmes lost, the routine was different. His injuries were typically no worse than usual, but they left Holmes with a jittery sort of energy that Watson associated most strongly with the cocaine. Sometimes, watching Holmes's feverbright eyes and feeling the heat that seemed to radiate off of him, he wondered if Holmes didn't prefer these nights. 

There was a desperation to them, and sometimes they wouldn't even be home before Holmes would be pressing Watson into a wall of an alley, the cool stone countered by Holmes's hardness, from both body and cock, a rough patch of masonry hurting his arse, rubbing his back. Those nights, Holmes would bite down Watson's neck, making him shudder and moan, marking him. He seemed to love leaving gaudy red signs of his presence and would smile a secret grin at whatever small evidence peeked out from under Watson's collar. 

(Sometimes he would lean forward and press his thumb against the bruise, sunnily insisting that Watson looked a little flushed and he was only checking his pulse. Such activity tended to raise Watson's pulse, and he would always bite off a little gasp that made Holmes look as pleased as a child.)

One memorable night Holmes had drawn blood, and he had brought his head quickly up, their blood mingling on Holmes's split lips, his pupils blown so much he looked unseeing and distant, and then they had kissed. Their teeth had clacked together and it was more a battle than an element of lovemaking, blood and sweat and the faint taste of fine tobacco making Watson moan. 

But every one of these nights, Holmes would eventually lose interest in Watson's neck, and fall to his knees, tugging Watson's shirt out of his trousers and slipping them down just far enough that Holmes could get to Watson's cock. Watson would stick his boot out, press it against Holmes's erection, and he would swallow Watson whole. 

Holmes would never open his eyes when he was doing this, and he had no finesse about it at all. He was messy and slobbery, choking sometimes in eagerness, and his face would flush. But he would also rock against the smooth leather of Watson's boot, sucking like he meant it, and Watson never lasted long. Watson's hands would tangle in his hair, feeling the griminess of it, as if it was an adequate support for knees under such attack. Once, he had thrown his head hard enough against stone that he had drawn blood, and his own hair had been stiff with gore by the time they had returned home. 

When they were both finished (Holmes pulsing against Watson's boot, face resting against Watson's thigh), Holmes would stand up, using Watson's body as a ladder, and they would lean against each other, breathing for long moments, before sneaking home like they were much younger men than they were. 

The next morning, Holmes's voice would be hoarse and heat would sink into Watson's belly at every word, causing Holmes's lips to curl up like he had the most perfect secret in the world.


End file.
